


In Vodka Veritas

by Vae



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Drunken Confessions, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 16:02:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/Vae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry surrenders his mug, burrowing in against Nick's side again as soon as Nick's put the mug down and he can. "I want people to know. Or think about asking. Not just assume that I'm straight because, you know."</p><p>"Because that's all they've seen?" Nick gives in to temptation, just a little, and strokes Harry's hair, trying to ignore the pleased sound he gets in response. "You're right, that <em>is</em> rubbish."</p><p>"I know!" Harry says, like it's a revelation. "It's rubbish how people think I'm straight because I like girls."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Vodka Veritas

**Author's Note:**

> This is blatant lies and fiction. The names used here are for characters based on the public personas of those mentioned, and nothing should be inferred about the true actions or personalities of these people. Please note that this was written BEFORE the GQ interview.
> 
> Huge love for rivers_bend for continuing to enable me to write these boys, and for her wonderful beta skills..

"...and they don't _ask_ , no one ever asks, why don't they ask?" The frustration's as clear in Harry's voice as the alcohol, raising the pitch even as the huskiness strengthens, the syllables slow and start to blur more than usual. "No one knows because they don't ask, they just assume, and how the fuck are you meant to tell someone that they're wrong about an assumption they won't even say because they think it's so fucking obvious?"

Nick blinks slowly. He doesn't remember answering his phone but he must have done, and put it on speaker too, because Harry's voice is coming loud and clear from the pillow beside him. The screen's blindingly bright in the darkness of his bedroom, and he gropes towards it, bringing it close enough to read the time on the screen. Half past two. To be fair, he never used to think that half past two was an unreasonable time to call anyone, or answer the phone, but it's been long enough now that even drunk Harry should remember the whole breakfast show thing. "Alright, pet," he says, wincing at the sound of his own voice, gives up on getting back towards sleep and rolls onto his back, one hand going up to rub at his eyes. "Alright, c'mon, you're alright."

"You're not _listening_ ," Harry's voice insists. "Grimmy, I can't, because it's not like there's even anything going on, how do I do that, what do I say, I mean, why, God, even you don't know, you haven't asked, this is _rubbish_."

A smile tugs at Nick's lips, no matter how upset Harry is. Fuck, there's nothing to make him feel old like a teenager (only just a teenager, his traitorous libido reminds him, nearly twenty, entirely legal anyway) being earnest. He's not old enough to have forgotten how some things feel like the whole world when you're nineteen and pissed. 

Though it seems that however many months of being in a boy band have cleaned up Harry's language. Nick can't imagine he'd have described anything as rubbish when he was nineteen.

"It's rubbish," he agrees in what he hopes is a soothing tone. "Look, Harry, where are you right now?"

Because if he doesn't know, and no one knows, then it's probably something that Harry shouldn't be spilling into his mobile outside a club. Even at half past two, there'll be someone around to tell that juicy snippet to Twitter. 

Something clatters outside and Nick huddles down under his duvet, tucking it in around his shoulders. It's proper windy out, not a half-hearted breeze, but the kind of wind that gusts strong enough to send wheelie bins into choreography along the alley. Nick's not looking forward to dodging through that lot in the morning. 

"I'm here," Harry says, after a brief pause which Nick assumes was time to check on his location. "I didn't... fuck, I shouldn't..."

"Probably not." Nick tries for patience. "Okay, work with me here, pet. Where's here?"

"Here," Harry repeats with more emphasis. "Here, like... _here_."

Suspicion sinks heavily in Nick's stomach, unpleasantly cold in the warm cocoon of his bed. (Spring can get a move on and arrive any time soon, seriously, it's too late in the year for it to be this cold, even at night.) "Here?"

"Here," Harry says with relief, like he's assuming Nick's understood. "Are you, can you... _fuck_."

Boy band training apparently only goes so far in cleaning up language. Or, apparently, Nick's yard, when it becomes clear that the timing of that clatter with Harry's cursing isn't a coincidental gust of wind. "You're outside?"

"Only until you let me in," Harry says, with careful patience. "It's... God, it's Thursday, I thought it was Friday, you're working in the morning, I'm a shit, I'll go, I'll..."

Probably break his ankle trying to get back up the steps. Given a choice between having that on his conscience and ending the honeymoon period of friendship by letting Harry find out what Nick wears to sleep when he's home on his own, it looks like the honeymoon's over. "Stay right there," Nick says firmly, pushes the covers back, shivers, and remembers to pick his phone up before it falls off the side of the bed with everything else. "I should give you a key or something, don't go anywhere, okay? I'm coming."

The sound that comes from Nick's phone sounds horribly like a sob, and Nick devoutly hopes that it's one of relief. "Nick..."

"I'm coming," he repeats, swears as his feet hit the cold floor, and decides that it's going to be one of those things that's best done quickly. He doesn't exactly run towards the front door, since his feet are curled to try to minimise contact with the floor, but it's definitely a fast hobble that takes him to pull the bolts back and slide the chain off, fumbling for his keys at the same time.

Sure enough, there's six foot infinity of drunk, miserable, far too fuckable pop star sprawled out on his steps looking like an angel who isn't quite sure how he fell but definitely did it on purpose, just waiting to slip under his carefully built defences by showing up when Nick was asleep.

Bastard.

Just to put the cherry on the cake, said fallen-angel pop star lights up into a brilliant smile at the sight of Nick, then promptly pukes off the side of the steps.

"Brilliant," Nick says with a sigh, curls his toes tighter, and goes out into the fucking freezing yard to stroke Harry's hair back and persuade him to come indoors.

>>>

Throwing up's apparently sobered Harry up, but Nick puts the kettle on anyway. If he's going to be awake now, when he's got to be up for work in, God, two and a half hours, it's not even going to be worth trying to sleep again, he'll be wrecked when the cab shows up, anyway, he's going to need a cup of tea. Besides, sober or not, something's clearly got Harry worked up, and there's never going to be enough Londoner in Nick to dislodge the upbringing that insists that the best response to any kind of trauma is a nice cup of tea.

That’s tea with plenty of milk and sugar, even if Harry doesn't usually take sugar, because Nick’s heard somewhere, sometime, that sugar's good for shock, and drunken misery has to be something like shock. Either that, or Harry's going to shock him somehow, and then he'll need the sweet tea himself.

"Right then," Nick says, with as much false alertness as he can manage, carrying the mugs through to where Harry's curled on the sofa, looking sorry for himself. "Get that down you and tell me what's going on, yeah?"

"Yeah," Harry mutters, taking the mug with both hands and cuddling it close without drinking it. "Sorry."

As he bloody well should be, but that one can go by for the minute. Right now, if Harry's going to drunk call him - and drunk visit him - the least he can do is give up the reason why. "None of that, now," Nick says firmly, tugs the blanket down from the back of the sofa and puts his mug down to check Harry's got his shoes off before wrapping him up in the blanket. Clubbing clothes don't mix well with the small hours of the morning in north London. "Drink up and tell me what's going on."

"But it's not going on," Harry says plaintively, taking an obedient sip of his tea anyway and wrinkling his nose but not commenting on the taste, because he's a nice polite boy who's been well brought up and that shouldn't be as charming as Nick finds it. "Because no one asks."

"I got that much." Nick retrieves his tea and sits down next to Harry, not surprised when Harry takes that as an invitation to lean in against him, because of course Harry does. Harry was, apparently, born to be his torment and test his self-control. Nick wraps an arm around his shoulders anyway in an awkward, one-handed cuddle. "Maybe if you shut up sometimes other people could get a question in now and again, yeah?"

It's meant as a joke, something light-hearted to make Harry smile, but for once it doesn't work. Instead, Harry's eyes widen and he looks crestfallen, chin dipping as he bends his head forwards to drink more tea, and not speak.

"Well, not _now_ ," Nick says, fondly exasperated, and backs it up by squeezing Harry's shoulders. As much as he can, anyway, Harry's broadened out a lot in the last year and somewhere along the way he's turned up nearly as tall as Nick as well, which just isn't fair, Nick isn't used to having friends who get taller when he's not looking. "What don't people ask?"

Harry's lower lip protrudes mutinously for a moment before he shakes his head. "You should get it."

"Maybe I would, if you'd _tell_ me." Even though Nick's still got no idea what Harry's getting at. The tea's helping, but he's had nowhere near enough sleep and his brain wants more of it, not being made to work trying to second guess the reason for Harry's emotional wreck. "Spit it out, Harold."

Harry sighs and leans his head against Nick's shoulder. "About boys."

For a startled, silent moment, Nick's grateful that he hasn't got his mouth full of tea, because he doesn't fancy spitting it either all over Harry or his couch. "Alright, then," he manages, voice slightly strangled from the surprise. "Tell me about boys. Like, the lads, right?"

Harry shakes his head fiercely, hair rubbing against Nick's t-shirt. It's the one he sleeps in, the reminder that once he actually went to a Kylie gig before she reinvented herself, so it's proof of how old he is as well as the embarrassing history of his musical preferences. "Not like that. Like they ask about girls. It's always who's got a girlfriend or which girl I'd want to take on a date and stuff."

Going out on a limb, Nick's making the assumption that Harry doesn't mean sex by 'and stuff', though with some of the interviews Harry's done, he wouldn't rule it out completely. "Are you trying to come out to me, Haz?" he asks cautiously. "Because I'm pretty sure you're meant to start with your mum."

Okay, Nick hadn't started with his mum, but that was mostly because he'd wanted to actually try stuff before really telling himself, so technically he'd really come out first to the bloke who used to work at Blockbuster on the corner of the estate and had been the right combination of familiar and unknown for Nick to feel bold enough to make the first move without being afraid of either getting murdered or someone (who wasn't him) telling his mum.

Harry goes still next to him, head still bowed forwards so Nick can't see his face. Nick doesn't really need to see his face; the tension that's holding Harry's shoulders ramrod-straight and steel-hard under his arm and the fact that he's pretty sure Harry's hardly breathing are both painfully familiar. It's still there, sometimes, no matter how much Nick tries to tell himself that anyone who thinks it makes a difference isn't worth getting upset over. There've been enough people who disappointed him when they found out what Nick had assumed they already knew that the uncertainty, the _risk_ of it's still a real thing.

"Only, you know, if you wanted to start with me, that's cool," he continues in a rush when Harry doesn't say anything. "You know it's not gonna make any difference to me, right, like you're still who you are and that's you and I'm not gonna think you're coming on to me just because you're telling me," because that would be ridiculous and proof he was still dreaming, probably, because he's not old but he's too old for Harry and besides, Harry's a mega-famous pop star who could probably date Chris Colfer if he wanted to, "and God, I'm shit at this, I've heard all this and I know it's crap and I'm still saying it and fuck, please say something or tell me to shut up."

"Shut up," Harry says obligingly, with a weird kind of hiccup in his voice.

Nick does, suspicious at that sound, leans forward to put his mug down on the floor and then uses his newly free hand to tug Harry's hair to lift his head so he can see Harry's face again. "Are you laughing at me, infant?"

Harry's smiling, anyway, the kind of mirthful look that brings out his dimples and threatens to break into a grin. Or a laugh. "I'm not gay, Grimmy."

Well. It's not like Nick thought it was likely or anything. Or that it would change anything if Harry is because they're mates and they're good mates and neither of them would risk that by changing anything and there's no reason at all for Nick to feel disappointed by that. "Are you pulling my leg, then, young Harold? Are the others outside waiting for you to tell them my reactions?"

"What?" Harry's eyes go darker for a moment, and his smile fades. "I wouldn't. Nick, I _wouldn't_."

"Right." Nick's not entirely sure, but then he remembers that he'll be cleaning up dried puke after work in the morning, and that's a little far for even Harry to go for verisimilitude. Hey, Nick's thinking words like verisimilitude, he must be closer to being awake. "But you want people to ask you about boys like they ask you about girls?"

Harry nods, perfect teeth catching on the fullness of his lower lip for a moment then digging in, flesh going pale around them and flushing darker further out. 

Nick's completely confused. More confused than before, and that's quite an achievement. "Is it a solidarity thing? Hey, hey, _oi_ , stop that."

Harry stops trying to drive his elbow into Nick's side and curls up again, leaning more heavily than before. "I'm bisexual," he says quietly, clear and certain enough that there's no way Nick can mishear it. "So, yeah, I guess this is me coming out to you, and it _sucks_."

And well, isn't that a turn up for the books. "Right then," Nick says, at a loss for anything else. It feels like he's already gone through his emotional reactions with the thinking maybe Harry's gay, and now he doesn't have anything left. 

"My mum knows," Harry adds, as if that's something that Nick was actually seriously worrying about. "And Gem. And the lads. And all the PR people."

God. None of that actually makes it better. It does make sense of Harry's misery earlier, at least. "They don't want you to come out? Or you don't want to?"

"Dunno," Harry says with a sigh, twisting to rest his cheek against Nick's chest, blanket tangling between them. "I mean, no one's said it, but it's like, implied. It's better for everyone not to, right?"

"Fuck everyone," Nick says, indignant and hearing the pitch of his own voice rise with outrage. "Fuck 'em all. Everyone's got no right to tell you to hide who you are."

"I'm not, really." Something warm and hard presses against Nick's side, and it takes a moment for him to recognise it as Harry's mug, apparently still at least partly tea-filled from the heat of it. "I mean, I've never said I don't like boys as well, and I haven't gone out with any blokes since it all started. And girls are good too, so it's... I'm just being me."

The force of Nick's anger at anyone who's told Harry that's good enough is enough to startle him, tension of it locking his spine until he can get some control over it, releasing some with a slow exhale. He shifts away very slightly in the hope that Harry won't pick up on his reaction and reaches for Harry's mug. "Okay, put that down for me, there's a good lad. Just... Look, do you want to tell people?"

Harry surrenders his mug, burrowing in against Nick's side again as soon as Nick's put the mug down and he can. "I want people to know. Or think about asking. Not just assume that I'm straight because, you know."

"Because that's all they've seen?" Nick gives in to temptation, just a little, and strokes Harry's hair, trying to ignore the pleased sound he gets in response. "You're right, that _is_ rubbish."

"I know!" Harry says, like it's a revelation. "It's rubbish how people think I'm straight because I like girls."

Nick manfully swallows back his laughter. If Harry had asked - and thank God he hasn't - Nick would have to admit that no, he's never thought that Harry might be bisexual. It's not something he tends to think about people. If he sees a man with a woman, he'll assume they're straight. If he sees a woman alone, well, it doesn't make that much difference and he just hopes she's happy. If he sees a man alone... Everyone's allowed a few please-be-gay prayers. "But they don't know you like boys, too."

Chris Colfer, he reminds himself sternly. Pop star. Good mate.

Harry bloody Styles.

"And no one asks," Harry agrees, bringing them neatly back around to the first bit of conversation that Nick remembers, except this time it makes more sense. "But it's not... I don't want to have to tell them. I mean, it's not like... I mean, if I had a boyfriend, it might be a thing, but I haven't and it feels like, I dunno. Is it worth it? There'd be, like, this big fuss but it's not like there anything else for people to see, and then if there was, is, would be, there'd be everything again and just because the lads know doesn't mean I want to put them through all that, and not twice..."

"Right," Nick says, with absolutely no reason for his heart to be sinking, because 'fuss' isn't the word he'd have chosen, he'd have gone with 'shitstorm', but then he's not in a boyband. "But if you don't tell them, look, Haz, I know it's rubbish. Trust me, I _know_ , but they're gonna start by thinking you're straight. It's, like, default. Maybe in thirty years or something that'll be different, but it's not now."

"It's rubbish," Harry repeats with a sigh, and wraps his free arm around Nick.

Nick pauses, then cautiously moves his hand from Harry's hair to hug him gently, tugging the blanket back up around Harry’s shoulder where it’s slipped down. "Yeah, it is. But there are people who know, and people you can tell, and I've heard you answer those questions, you're good at it." He'd always noticed, but never read more into it, just heard and noted that Harry rarely answered a question and made his answer specifically about girls. It's always 'someone', not 'a girl'. "But if you want to tell more people, I've got your back, okay?"

Fingers wiggle as Harry works his hand behind Nick's back and cuddles in closer. "And you said it doesn't make any difference."

"Right," Nick lies, because of course it makes a difference. He doesn't really want it to, but it's definitely going to be a little worse knowing that Harry _is_ into blokes but is still off limits and unobtainable.

"What about..." Harry lifts his head, tilting it back to look up at Nick, lips full and shining, eyes far too clear for oh-God-o-clock and however much alcohol he's consumed. "What if I wanted it to make a difference?"

Nick stares. He's pretty sure he's gaping, too, but then again, he's probably fallen asleep on his sofa because there's no chance that his reality includes Harry Styles clinging to him and propositioning him. Because oh yes, that's exactly where Nick's brain goes. Not to clubbing together, not to advice, not to watching Harry out on the pull. Straight to Harry being interested in _him_.

In his defence, he's not sure what time it is beyond 'too fucking early' and Harry might have turned into a sleep deprivation hallucination, and if Nick's hallucinations can't fulfil his fantasies, nothing ever will. 

"What kind of difference?" he says at last, because at least one thing has to make sense, and clarity is good. Lack of ambiguity is good.

Harry studies him with a serious expression, curls a hand around Nick's shoulder, leans in terrifyingly (wonderfully) close. "This kind of difference," he says, close enough that Nick can feel the warmth of Harry's breath on his lips, and then kisses him.

Nick, because he's only human (and sleep deprived, really definitely sleep deprived, maybe dreaming, maybe turned into Chris Colfer in his dream, that would explain a lot), kisses back. It's one of the things he's never told anyone: that in the dark, weak hours when sleep's breaking down his carefully honed resistance, he doesn't fantasise about sex with Harry, he fantasises about kissing Harry. Harry's stupidly full, soft-looking lips, which are just as soft as they look, warmer too, and after a moment of hesitation, moving against his with increasing confidence. 

(He does fantasise about sex with Harry too, course he does, but that's usually the times when he has his cock in his hand and can logically blame that for the direction of his fantasies.)

Except Nick's pretty sure that neither his dreams or his fantasies involve Harry breaking the kiss by yawning, of all things. It's a proper yawn, one that stretches Harry's lips out as his mouth opens, and one that Nick gets a close up look at in the seconds between him opening his eyes and Harry covering his mouth with his hand, looking startled and sheepish.

The sad thing is, that's not the worst reaction to a kiss that Nick's ever had. The best thing, he decides, is to act like it didn't happen, as far as he can. "Been bottling that up a while, haven't you?" he says gently.

Harry moves the hand over his mouth and scrubs at his eyes, looking horribly young. "A bit."

"Feel good to get it off your chest?" Shit. Shit. Harry _kissed_ him, and it was bloody amazing, which is the only excuse Nick can think of for the fact that he's acting like a complete twat instead of finding out how much sex with Harry he can fit into the time before the cab comes to pick him up for work. His reality doesn't allow for the fact that Harry Styles might turn up at his flat in the middle of the night and make a drunken confession and then kiss him, tasting of tea and the faint, lingering, unmistakeable sweetness of vodka-vomit, all of which detail suggests that it really did happen, because Nick's fantasies definitely never involved Harry's kisses including the trace of sick flavour.

"I kissed you," Harry says, looking nearly as confused as Nick feels but confirming that, okay, yeah, it happened. Reality. 

"Yeah, you did," Nick says, soft surrender and a sigh. "Don't worry about it."

"And you kissed me _back_." Harry sounds confident about that, at least. Nick wasn't planning to deny it, but he wasn't expecting Harry to mention it, either. "Didn't you want me to kiss you?"

"I wasn't expecting you to kiss me," Nick said honestly, which isn't actually an answer to what Harry asked but close enough on four hours (ish) of sleep.

Harry nods slowly, his hair swaying with the movement. "So how about I do it again, now you are?"

God. It's happening. It's really happening. Harry wants to kiss him. Harry wants Nick to know that he fancies blokes, because Harry wants it to make a difference to Nick, because Harry wants to kiss him. Nick considers that he's exercising admirable restraint in not jumping up and boogying around the living room, really, never mind not pinning Harry to the sofa and doing a lot more than kissing. The rest of the talking thing can wait. One thing, though, really can't. "Er," Nick says eloquently. 

Harry's face falls. "You don't want me to?"

"You could clean your teeth first," Nick says weakly.

Harry blushes a startlingly sudden and dark pink, and punches Nick's shoulder. It's the most normal thing that's happened since Nick's phone rang, and he laughs with the relief of it, lifting his hands in protest when it looks like Harry's about to punch him again. "Ow, okay, no, enough of that, stop it, _stop_ , you horrible infant."

"Not an infant," Harry insists, pressing his fist gently against Nick's raised palm. "You want me, yeah?"

Nick closes his fingers around Harry's fist and gives in. "Yeah, for my sins. Just a bit more when you don't taste of sick. No, stop it, God!"

>>>

Harry does clean his teeth, and by some miracle the leftover tea doesn't get kicked onto the floor before Nick collects the mugs and dumps them in the kitchen sink to get washed up later. Nick's not sure he can actually feel his feet, because Harry's the one who's been curled up in a blanket and Nick's the one who's been sitting around in just a thin t-shirt and boxers on a truly baltic night. Still, if 90s Kylie and sick haven't managed to put Harry off, cold feet probably won't do it, either.

At least, Nick hopes so.

He checks the time on his phone, desperately hopes it's lying, double checks against the microwave and resists the urge to combine the two in explosive but probably deeply (temporarily) satisfying ways. It's nearly four already; he's got to get up in an hour and a half and somehow make himself presentable for work in the remaining half an hour before the cab arrives to pick him up. Radio was so much easier before webcams and livestreams started being a regular thing.

He does remember to plug his phone in to charge before huddling back in bed, curled up to vigorously rub his own feet in an attempt to restore circulation before frostbite or something kicks in and his toes start falling off, which is, of course, how Harry finds him. Hunched under the duvet, rubbing himself.

"Started without me?" Harry says cheerfully and crawls into bed beside Nick, making up for the cold draft of moving the duvet by curling himself around Nick's back and cuddling in close.

Nick freezes, and lets go of his feet. "Harold..."

"It's cold on your sofa," Harry tells the back of Nick's neck, pressing his cold nose against it for proof and punctuation. "So don't even."

"I wasn't going to," Nick says weakly, because he was thinking it. Not in a happy way and not in a way that means he's about to kick Harry out of his bed (or come over all noble and volunteer to sleep on the sofa himself, that thing's great to sit on but it's murder on his back if he sleeps on there, and he knows that from experience), but in an oh-shit-I-need-sleep-how-can-I-sleep-with-him-here sort of way.

"Good." Harry nuzzles Nick's neck again, his nose beginning to warm up, and sighs with every evidence of contentment. "Go to sleep, then."

The situation's slipping dangerously out of Nick's control, and of all the things he's ever imagined happening if Harry ever ended up in his bed, Harry telling him to sleep really isn't one of them. Not, anyway, the thing that happens first. "What happened to you kissing me?"

Harry, unreasonable bastard that he is, laughs. "I can't get to you."

"I can't turn over," Nick counters. "There's something on my back."

Instead of acting like a normal person and letting go so Nick can turn over, Harry somehow manages to climb over Nick's side, sprawling and sliding and squirming along the way, enough body contact that by the time he drops triumphantly onto the mattress in front of Nick, Nick's more than halfway to hard and even more helplessly infatuated than before, straightening his legs out and bending his knees back to keep his ice-cold feet safely away from Harry. Harry's somehow ridiculously, invitingly warm, and has no hesitation in pressing himself up against Nick's front just as closely as he had with Nick's back.

"There," Harry says, sounding satisfied, untangles a hand from the duvet, and strokes Nick's cheek.

It's ludicrous, in a way. It's stupidly romantic. Harry's being careful with Nick, and Nick's really not sure how to tell Harry that he doesn't need to be gentled or seduced, doesn't need the light touches or the way that Harry's hand cradling his jaw makes him feel treasured, because he might not need it, it might be really fucking unsettling, but he does actually, unexpected as it is, like it. He does feel special, with Harry's thumb stroking his face and Harry's eyes, bright and serious, fixed on his, no matter the stray thought that Harry must have used the same moves on fuck knows how many girls. (And, apparently, boys.)

Nick licks his lips, not entirely sure if it's nerves or an invitation. There's nothing to be nervous about, really, except maybe the way Harry's looking at him. Maybe it's sleep deprivation that makes him feel like he's going to shiver. "Harry..."

"Shush," Harry says, softly and firmly, and kisses him.

It's definitely better when Harry tastes of Nick's toothpaste instead of sick. It's better, too, because Harry's getting more confident with every kiss and that confidence is fucking ace at dispersing Nick's lingering guilt. It's Harry's choice. Harry wants this. Harry wants _him_ , and Harry's not pulling away from the evidence that Nick very definitely wants Harry. In fact, Nick's getting some hard evidence of how much Harry wants him, pressed hot and thick against his hip through thin cotton, rocking slowly as Nick stops trying to resist and groans, slides his hands up under Harry's shirt, scrapes his teeth against Harry's top lip and licks deeper into his mouth. So much warm skin under his hands, so smooth, so easy to feel muscle definition in undulations he can trace with his fingertips and oh, yeah, there's the shiver, escaping when Harry hooks a leg over Nick's hips to grind in closer.

Nick breaks the kiss, dropping his head back with a sigh and a gasped breath before even trying to open his eyes, and then forgets all about trying because Harry's taken that as an invitation too, and Harry's mouth is on his throat, hot and soft and wet. "Haz..."

Harry rumbles disapproval against his skin, a low rasp of sound that connects direct with Nick's libido in a rush of tight heat to his cock, curls his body tighter in against Harry, instinctively going for more contact. Closer to Harry's body, the strength and broadness of muscles Nick's spent months trying not to notice developing and now he can touch them, bend his fingers and drag his nails down over Harry's back, find out how that makes Harry groan and shiver. For him, fuck, Harry's groaning for him, back arching and... right, that's going to be a hickey, and that shouldn't be as hot as it is. Harry's gone from kisses to little bites to biting deeper, sucking in on Nick's neck in a slow, throbbing ache that just adds another layer to everything.

Harry _is_ everything.

Nick stops trying to pretend, even to himself, that he's got any self-control left, and drops his hand to Harry's arse, squeezing appreciation and wishing Harry wasn't wearing shorts. Wishing he wasn't wearing shorts either, but neither wish is strong enough to make him let go of Harry enough for either of them to get rid of clothes. 

Harry moans for him, low and shameless, and shudders, squirming to press harder into Nick's hand and then forwards again, his cock rubbing up against Nick's hip. "Fuck, Nick, I've _wanted_..."

Apparently Nick can get even more turned on. Hearing that, knowing that, with unmistakable proof pressed against him, there's a very real possibility that Nick's going to come before Harry does. His pride (what little he's still clinging to) doesn't want to let that happen, but his body's not listening to his pride. "Harry, God, Harry, yeah, that's it."

With great effort of will, Nick pulls his hand away to push inside Harry's shorts, getting himself a handful of Harry's tight, firm arse, skin hot against his palm, muscle hard under his fingers, and Harry whimpers for him, a choked sob of a sound accompanied by a shudder. Harry tenses against him and then relaxes abruptly, face pressed into Nick's neck as a rush of heat lets Nick know that Harry's coming.

Nick's always imagined that Harry would be loud when he comes. A yell, maybe, or at least words, Harry's usual babble translated into something incoherent and obscene. He's never imagined this near silence, or that it's actually better than anything he's fantasised about. It's better because it's real, of course it is, but it's even better because the unexpected quietness is somehow more intense, as if Harry's given himself over completely to experiencing the sensations of the moment.

It's so much better that it shatters Nick's last trace of resistance and he tightens his hold on Harry, gripping tightly, heartbeat rapid and fast, echoing the harshness of his breath. They're both a mess, and Nick honestly can't tell whether there's more of his come or Harry's soaking through his shorts. Doesn't care, either, because it's there, sticky and slick and hot, making thin cotton feel rough and coarse, stopping the frantic working of his hips and leaving him wrapped close around Harry, breathless and laughing.

Laughing, because it's fucking ridiculous and it's brilliant, incredible in every meaning of the word, only pushing him closer to helpless giggles when Harry grumpily bites his shoulder through his t-shirt. Nick reaches up, threads his fingers into Harry's hair, tugging his head back. "Oi, no, stop it, I'm not laughing _at_ you, idiot."

"What happened to afterglow?" Harry grumbles, letting Nick move his head and completely failing to deliver an effective glare.

"This _is_ afterglow." Nick bends to kiss Harry, because he can, because he wants to, because Harry's right there in his arms, in his bed, and it's the best thing ever. "I'm happy."

Harry pauses, getting that crinkle between his eyebrows that always appears when he's reassessing something. "You're happy?"

"'Course I am." If Harry hasn't already picked up on that, he's not as bright as Nick firmly believes he is. "Got you, haven't I?"

"Yeah, you have." The crinkle lasts a few seconds longer before clearing as Harry smiles up at him, wide and warm and dazzling. "And I've got you."

"Yeah," Nick agrees and kisses Harry again, softer. Later, he's going to regret not getting up to clean up, but later can take care of later. "You're buying me breakfast today."

"I'm coming into work with you today," Harry says, nestling in against Nick again. "I'll keep out the way of the cameras."

So apparently the wanting people to know without being told is going to wait for another day. Nick's fine with that. He's not sure he can deal with gaining Harry like this and dealing with the media shitstorm of Harry coming out on the same day, and besides, that's Harry's choice to make, when he's ready. "You're gonna be so hungover," he says fondly, stroking Harry's hair, letting curls twist around his fingers.

"Yeah," Harry says, closing his eyes with a happy sigh. "But I'm gonna be stuck to you, so you've got no choice. You'll have to take me in with you."


End file.
